Many Days of Rain
by KASLiNN
Summary: Weeks have passed since Kuja was rescued from the depths of the Iifa Tree and from the darkness consuming his soul. Now he struggles to come to terms with emotions he hasn't felt in years—and some he's never felt before in his life. Full summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Weeks have passed since Kuja was rescued from the depths of the Iifa Tree and from the darkness consuming his soul. Now he and his rescuer, once enemy, recover at the abandoned village, Madain Sari. With the battle for control over his own fate momentarily resolved, Kuja struggles to come to terms with feelings and emotions he hasn't felt in years—and some he's never felt before in his life.

This popped into my head after talking to the wonderfully talented Myshu. I played through the game a little bit afterwards and got hit by the inspiration truck. Unfortunately, the inspiration truck has a very specific destination when it runs people over, so I was not able to use my creativity to work on the story Myshu and I talked about (sorry Myshu! Hee hee). But consider this a tribute to you—this is the first thing I've put up in the FFIX section in three years!

Anyway, you read the (horrible) summary, you know what it's basically about (I promise it's a much better read than the summary conveys). A little background noise: this story, of course, assumes that Kuja doesn't die at the Iifa Tree, but it also assumes that the cut scene we see during the ending where Mikoto walks along the roots happens _after _Zidane and Kuja have escaped. Why? Because I forgot to mention her in the story _/palmhand/_ Also, it can be considered slashy, if you squint at it the right way, but it's very, _very_ tame (I kept it a PG rating for a reason). Otherwise, you are free to interpret it however you like.

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. A fangirl can only dream. But anything you don't recognize from game canon I made up, so try to keep an open mind. I'm exercising the right to creative license.

Enjoy.

**Many Days of Rain**

The days were growing shorter, now. It was an almost imperceptible change, but Kuja, sitting in the same room for weeks on end, noticed nothing _but_ imperceptible changes—the subtly quickening sunset, the cooling night breeze, the scent of moisture in the air—all these discreet shifts signaled to Kuja two things. One, autumn was on their doorstep and two, he desperately needed to get out more. For the first couple of days after his initial recovery he had enjoyed observing the slight alterations in the world outside his window, but this was getting ridiculous. He wanted to walk underneath the stars, not glimpse them from behind a pane of glass and wood. He wanted to feel the rain caressing his skin—he'd always loved the rain. As much as he'd ever loved anything, anyway.

But he was not ready for the outside world yet. As much as he hated to admit it, he was still weak. Getting out of bed was some days beyond his capability. Walking outside—let alone in the rain—could prove hazardous to his fragile health. For now, his only option was to wait.

Still, even he, the master of patience (he'd waited nearly ten years before setting his world domination plans into motion), was reaching the limits of his endurance with regard to this prolonged faux imprisonment.

That was not to say that he was completely isolated at Madain Sari. Indeed, the only other occupant of the former Summoner's village (save for the pride of moogles) would scarcely let him forget his presence. The tenacity of Zidane Tribal hadn't wavered a bit; he was every bit as dogged and irritating as he remembered from those hazy, hallucinogenic days of domination and power lust. And every bit the compassionate fool—if it hadn't been for Zidane, he wouldn't be alive. Despite everything he'd done to the world, and to Zidane personally, the blonde had refused to give up on him.

Gazing out the window once again, Kuja reflected on those last few months before the culmination of events at the Iifa Tree, the final battle and his struggle to survive amidst the tangle of roots and blood. It had all appeared to him as a dream, not fully there, never at one time: the insatiable need for revenge, the desire for power beyond the comprehension of his maker, the constant drive inside his soul for destruction and war—these things took control over him, willingly perhaps, but once it was done he couldn't undo it. He couldn't say truthfully that he'd had no control over his actions, but he could say that his actions were not dictated by his rational mind. He had not always been that way. He had not always been that monster.

Yet it was no excuse. The people of Gaia would not forgive him on account of a simple case of lapse in sanity. That was why he was here, in the wasteland of ruined buildings and restless souls, a village that had met its demise by his own hand. Here he—mind and body—would find peace again.

The irony did not escape him.

A knock came at the door: Zidane, of course, unless the moogles had taken a sudden interest in him. Kuja did not respond. He didn't need to. The knocking was less of an act of courtesy and more of a warning that entry could not be forestalled short of the occupant's lack of decency. Habitually he glanced over as the door issued a rusty squeal and crept inward, ushering in his blonde "jailer." It was an inappropriate term. Zidane wasn't keeping him here against his will—isolation had been as much his own idea as it had been the boy's—but it helped to ease a little of his frustration.

Zidane held a tray of food in his hands, the contents of a ceramic bowl and a hand-crafted mug still steaming. Kuja made a face and turned away. Gysahl green soup and hot herbal tea. His "gourmet" meal for three straight weeks. He felt like a damned chocobo.

Zidane must have seen the wince—which wasn't surprising as Kuja had made no effort to conceal it. "Hey, don't complain. You'll insult the chef."

Kuja watched him set the tray on the table beside his bed. The familiar odor of earth and diluted spices wafted to greet him and he swallowed heavily, the scent making him vaguely nauseous. "Consider yourself insulted."

Always contrary, Zidane could only grin at the slight. "Is it my fault you're a picky eater?"

"I hardly consider vegetarianism as being _picky_," Kuja said, taking up his spoon and dipping it in the thin, clear liquid. He let it drop back into the bowl with a wet, empty splash and pushed the entire tray away with a grimace. "Although currently the prospect of consuming the flesh of animals doesn't sound quite so revolting as it normally does."

"Well, you could try some Griffin or Zaghnol meat if you think you could handle it," Zidane offered, still grinning. "I mean, it's not Lindblum premium choice steak or anything, but I like it. Griffins are a bit tough and stringy and sometimes Zaghnol meat can get a little gristly, and always tastes kind of like charcoal, even if you eat it still bleeding—"

The nausea grew in intensity until Kuja could taste that morning's breakfast rising precariously in his throat. "You are a disgusting, ill-mannered, uncultured, and sick-minded child, Zidane. Your complete disregard for civility makes me wonder how these Gaian savages must have raised you. It almost makes we wish I'd kept you with me on Terra. I would have made you into prince."

The image of a well-dressed, acutely groomed Zidane came to mind, in an outfit similar to Kuja's previous attire (which was now regrettably more suited to be used as rags) and his sunshine hair neatly combed. Rather than laugh at the absurdity of it, the idea conjured a feeling foreign to him. It was pleasant, almost like…like….The word escaped him. Kuja had no name to describe the feeling, and it vexed him. Articulation was one of his many talents. How odd to have it fail him now.

Brushing away the troublesome thought, he found that Zidane was grinning, most likely envisioning the very same picture of himself. Kuja wondered if he also felt the strange feeling, but knowing Zidane he doubted it very much—from his understanding of the blonde there were two ways Zidane interpreted things: seriously or comically. Judging from his expression he saw only humor in the idea of himself in traditional Terran garb, and did not sound much bothered by the notion.

"Me, a prince? Hoo, that's rich." He allowed himself a laugh at his own expense, something Kuja had never much understood but very much admired. "Prince Zidane of Bran Bal. What would that make Garland, then? King?"

The old man's name left a bitter taste in his mouth far worse than that of Gysahl green soup. "I'm sure he would not have contested the title, though it would not rightly have belonged to him."

Zidane cocked his head to the side, eyes lighting up with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

Eager to distract himself (and Zidane) from the issue of soup consumption, Kuja said, "Legend tells that Terra once had a king. He was a man of cosmic strength and infinite wisdom, necessary traits for someone who holds sovereignty over an entire planet. Some considered him to be their god."

"He ruled all of Terra?" Kuja nodded. "What happened to him?"

"The same things that happened to all the Terrans. Even kings are not exempt from that." Kuja watched Zidane's face as he seemed to consider something; his eyebrows drew together and his lower lip vanished between his teeth. It was a face he remembered from a time long ago, when Zidane had been nothing more than a baby, and he himself barely into adolescence. It was every bit as endearing as it had been then, he recalled. And there was that feeling again. Different this time, but oddly the same. It felt…

"Hey Kuja," the blonde interrupted the thought. "Do you think there are any Terrans left? I mean, they had Spirit Road and Shimmering Island, right? Do you think any of them came to Gaia before…you know…before it happened?"

"No, I think not," Kuja said with some certainty. He'd never read about such a thing—and if there was no mention of a Terran migration in his vast library, then it probably hadn't happened (or at the very least, wasn't documented). Zidane did not appear satisfied by his succinct answer.

"Why not? I mean, we did it, me and the others. I've even been twice, right? When you dropped me off here? And the island has been around for centuries, not to mention the fact that the Terrans were pretty damn smart, so they could've made the trip."

"Even if they had, they'd be long dead by now," Kuja said, eyeing the tray out of his peripheral vision. The soup had stopped steaming. "Besides, the decline of Terra was not an immediate occurrence. It happened slowly over many years, and for years many Terrans were convinced they could save their home. Unbeknownst to them, their efforts were only accelerating the world's deterioration. By the time they realized that there was no hope of resuscitating the planet, it was too late. There was no choice but to follow Garland's plan and put their souls into stasis. If their souls had, _somehow_, made the journey across Spirit Road, then they would have gone to the Iifa Tree and back into the cycle."

Zidane stood still for a moment, soaking it in. Then, lamely, he concluded, "Oh."

"Why did you want to know, anyway?" Kuja studied him, scanning for signs that Zidane might know something he didn't—a rare feat. But Zidane just shrugged, a hapless grin across his lips.

"Just curious," he said, and Kuja knew there was nothing but honesty behind the statement. "And I wanted to see how much you would talk to me. When we first got here, getting you to talk was like pulling teeth."

"You'll have to forgive me if I had…other things on my mind more pressing than initiating friendly conversation," Kuja said, directing his gaze out the window. It was nearly dark now. The gray clouds hung low over the horizon, blotting out the sunset's fading colors. It would probably rain tonight, like that first night they spent in Madain Sari. Those were dark days, the mornings and nights following his rescue.

He could only remember them in clips and fragments—Zidane hauling him out of the bowels of the tree, Zidane carrying him across barren wastelands (smudges of brown in his swimming vision) and dense forests (smudges of green), Zidane lying him in a bed, Zidane telling him not to die—throughout it all, Zidane had been there. At first, Kuja had resented…no, detested his presence. He'd hated the younger genome for his interference. He'd been ready to die, wanted to, even, and Zidane had barred him from that release. In those first few days, life was every bit the hell he had imagined for himself, only worse because he knew he hadn't actually died, and wouldn't be allowed to die so long as Zidane was there. He'd hurt everywhere, inside and out (he remembered there being a lot of blood and to this day the acrid taste of potions lingered on his tongue). He hadn't even tried to use magic to heal his wounds (not at first, at least). Even if he'd been strong enough to call the power, he wouldn't have: he hadn't wanted the hurt to end that way. He'd wanted it to end with death. He'd refused food. He'd fought treatment. He'd let himself wither away until his desire was within arm's reach, until his desire was reaching for _him._

Zidane had bargained with him, pleaded with him, _begged_him not to go. Every day, he'd been there, just talking. Kuja couldn't recall much of what was said—stories, meaningless blather, speeches made to inspire, the usual Zidane rhetoric. He never spoke in return (Zidane's attempts to get him to do so were, indeed, "like pulling teeth"). It had meant little to him. They'd been enemies a short while ago. He'd tried to destroy the world—not just the world, but the Crystal itself! The source of all life. He was the enemy, the scourge of mankind. He was worthless. How could Zidane care about something like him?

His tears had proved his sincerity. Kuja was unsure if Zidane knew that he'd been watching him that night, clutching the sheets and crying soundlessly, shoulders heaving with the effort to keep quiet. They never talked about it. But it was the turning point for Kuja. No one had ever cried for him before. So he fought, struggled, and wrestled with the death he had so efficiently wrought for himself; he'd fought until the very effort nearly took his life anyway.

A week ago, when he awoke from a deep slumber, he'd still hurt physically, but inside he felt different. A part of him had awakened that he'd not felt in nearly thirteen years. It was small, buried deep, but with each day, each conversation with Zidane, it grew and blossomed. For the first time in a long time, he was starting to feel…whole again.

Not that he would admit this to Zidane, who would probably interpret it as a product of his divine intervention. Kuja didn't want to feel any more indebted to him than he already was, after all.

"There you go again, getting all pensive on me. Can't you hold a conversation without going into introspective brooding mode?"

Kuja only caught the tail end of that (much to his annoyance), but heard enough to know that Zidane was teasing him again. A retort working its way to his lips, he paused when he saw that the blonde was holding his side tenderly. His affable smile didn't fool Kuja; underneath his shirt were layers and coils of bandages not unlike the ones wrapped around his own body. It was easy to forget, what with the blonde's easy going disposition and selfless nature, that he hadn't managed to get through his ordeal unscathed.

"Are you in pain?" Kuja asked, ignoring the good-humored gibe. Zidane quickly moved his hand.

"Huh? Oh, no, I'm all right. Just sore. Playing sick nurse to you is a pretty taxing job! Maybe if you weren't such a big baby I'd have more time to sleep at night."

It was meant to be another light-hearted attempt at taunting him, but Kuja caught a glimpse of truth in the joke. "You haven't been neglecting your health to look after me, have you?"

Zidane didn't bat an eye, but his tail lashed out behind him, whipping around his ankles in a manner that betrayed the blonde's otherwise outward calm. "Nope, not at all. I'm fitter than a Gimme Cat in Lindblum's treasure vaults."

As he had a tail himself, Kuja was very accustomed to the fact that the furry appendage basically had a mind of its own, and was very impractical when trying to lie. It was why he'd hidden his all those years (magic was a wonderful thing). "When was the last time you changed your bandages, then?"

The was a very suspicious (and very guilty) silence. Kuja nodded.

"Sit down."

"Come on, Kuja, don't—"

"Sit. Down."

Effectively cowed, Zidane obeyed, taking a seat on the lumpy mattress. Kuja started by unraveling the linen strips around the boy's right arm, nimble fingers making quick work of the tight knots. As he peeled more and more layers off, the fabric went from white to a rusty reddish brown—sometimes splotched with a brighter shade of red. Clucking his tongue in disapproval, he gently unwound the last dressing, revealing an nasty vertical tear across Zidane's forearm. The cut wasn't very deep, but it was long and very obviously poorly cared for. Dried blood stuck to the edges of the wound, the same copper color that stained the bandages, and the gash itself was puffy and swollen.

Kuja could only imagine what the deeper, more serious wounds across his back and chest looked like. Without trying to conceal the hard note in his voice, he said, "Take off your shirt, please. I need to see if you've been behaving as foolishly as I think you have."

Zidane tried to parley with him. "I was going to change them later. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay first." In a practiced maneuver, he stuck out his lower lip ever so slightly, raised his eyebrows, and pouted at him with wide, doleful eyes not unlike a kicked puppy.

"Your shirt, Zidane," Kuja said. Unfortunately for the blonde, he had developed an immunity to that look in their earlier days back in Bran Bal (although, Zidane, he was sure, had no memory of this). Cursing under his breath, Zidane gingerly stripped off the oversized shirt (it was "on loan" from a charitable dwarf in Conde Petie), and Kuja set to work on the impressive set of bandages wound around his upper body like some bizarre holiday gift. Once everything had been untied and untangled, and a mound of soiled linens lay piled on the sheets, Kuja only had one thing to say.

"Zidane, you _moron_."

The boy hung his head. "It's better than it looks. I've had worse."

"That very well may be, but barring some form of head trauma it should not have made you think this sort of reckless behavior was acceptable." Kuja studied the series of gashes across Zidane's upper body, all souvenirs from their escape from the Iifa Tree. They were red, raw, and inflamed; Kuja could only guess how long this neglect had been going on. A ring of bruises around the boy's ribs made him wonder how badly Zidane was really injured.

Though he kept up an air of anger and disappointment, Kuja was worried. "You let this go on far too long, Zidane. Promise me you'll take better care of yourself in the future."

"Aww, Kuja, that's so sweet. I didn't know you cared." Zidane grinned at him over his shoulder. Always teasing. Always with the jokes.

He didn't return the sentiment. "Promise me."

The jester's grin melted into gentle smile. Zidane nodded. "I promise."

Satisfied, Kuja didn't allow himself to dwell on the exchange. That unfamiliar feeling was stirring in his chest again—he didn't understand why it happened on and off like that—why it only happened when he was talking to Zidane. He didn't like it at all. It was a pleasant enough feeling, but not knowing what it was and what it meant made him uneasy. He'd lost control over his emotions once before and had almost destroyed everything.

He brushed aside these anxieties (for now) and pushed his sleeves up around his elbows. "I suppose it's my turn to fix you up, then."

"Not with magic," Zidane said sharply, eyes flashing. "You aren't strong enough yet."

"I'm aware of that," Kuja returned, a flare of indignation igniting in him. He knew his limits—he wasn't about to try the magic again until he was more or less fully recovered. Zidane's mothering was getting a little invasive, especially since the boy wasn't exactly setting a model example. He gestured to the impromptu medical supplies on the long bench against the wall: a pile of clean bandages, a clay pitcher, and a wide rimmed bowl.

Zidane followed his gaze and nodded in approval. "I'll get them." He rose stiffly and collected the bandages, dropping them on the bed, then poured a small amount of water from the pitcher into the shallow bowl and sat it on Kuja's lap.

"I should get one of the moogles to do this," he said, hesitantly taking his seat. "You really need to be resting."

"I've rested enough," Kuja said shortly, soaking a linen strip in the water and wringing it out thoroughly. "Now let me do this or I'll cast a silence spell on you."

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't use magic!"

"Zidane, I was joking."

"Joking? You? Wow, you really must be getting better! I don't think I've ever heard you—ahh! Ouch!"

"You brought this on yourself," Kuja reminded him, continuing to bathe one of the shallower cuts with the damp clothe, though he took care to be a bit gentler in his ministrations. He worked in silence; for once Zidane respected the quiet, although Kuja found himself wishing that the blonde would start up another silly conversation—he much preferred the boy's lighthearted teasing to the muffled hisses of pain that escaped him whenever the rag swept over a more tender area.

Minutes later he had finished cleaning and rewrapping all the cuts, and Zidane once again bore a striking resemblance to a mummy. He ran his hand over the bandages covering his arm, and grinned in appreciation. "This is a pretty good dressing. Much better than the moogles. They always tie the knots too tight! '_Stop squirming, kupo!' _Sadists, all of them." He pantomimed punting a small object across the room—a small, white something with a red pom-pom, Kuja assumed, and he couldn't help it. A grin spread its way across his lips—a genuine expression of mirth. How long had it been since he'd smiled? Had it really been so long?

Overcome momentarily by the purity of his emotions, he bowed his head. "Thank you, Zidane." It was the first time he'd said it. His throat closed; he couldn't say it all (_thank you for making me smile, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for not giving up on me, thank you for saving me)_ but he hoped that the simplicity of those two words could convey everything he had to be grateful about. He looked the blonde in the eyes and repeated it for good measure. "Thank you."

Zidane reacted with the proper mix of embarrassment and pride. His cheeks flushed pink and he scratched his head bashfully, but he was beaming. "Any time, Kuja. I'm gonna go get a fire started. You get some rest, okay?"

The smile was fading, but the feeling remained. Kuja liked this one; he felt warm, content. Welcome. He'd never felt so at home as he did in the tiny, broken shack with its badly patched roof and cracked walls. He nodded and Zidane opened the door to leave. With the blonde's back turned, Kuja's gaze fell on the tray of uneaten food on his bedside table, and he smirked. He'd won that battle without even trying.

Zidane poked his head back in. "Oh, and Kuja?"

"Hmmm?"

"Eat your soup."

**End**

I blame typographical errors on my lack of a beta and my poor proof-reading skills. My brain has an auto-correct function. Thanks for your patience.

It's supposed to be a one-shot, but I've got a few ideas swimming around in my head that may be good enough for another couple chapters or so (as the title might imply—maybe I did that subconsciously?). I don't know. What do you guys think? If it continues, it'll be KujaxZidane. Hope that doesn't dissuade anyone from leaving a review. _/wink/_

_Written because I was tired of seeing dead Kuja/depressingly angsty, death obsessed Kuja. There is hope for the silver haired bishounen. Let us rejoice._


	2. Chapter II

Back by popular demand, and because I have nothing else to do while I wait for my last final, lol. Thanks to everyone for reviewing—you really brightened up my week (and trust me, this week has been pretty dark. Tests that can drop your grade a whole letter really suck balls). You guys are great!

I'm just going to say right now, I don't like this chapter as much as I do the first. There are some good parts, but the middle and ending aren't my favorites. But it's not going to get much better, I think, and if I try to revise it too much I'll just end up giving up on the story altogether. It's been the part I've been dreading since this thing's spontaneous conception, but hopefully now that it's over and done with I can concentrate on subsequent chapters, which I'm still, somehow, thinking about writing (this was supposed to be a one-shot, lol). Anyway, I'll just leave it up to you guys, my marvelous readers, so don't forget to leave a review, even if you don't like it.

This chapter is a bit slashier, but still rated PG, so you shouldn't have to avert your eyes just yet.

Enjoy.

**Chapter II**

The onset of autumn brought rain to Madain Sari in copious amounts. According to the moogles, the weather was unseasonably wet for Pualei Plains, an area kept annually parched by the southern mountains and the dry northern air. Over the course of two weeks, the sun had remained concealed behind a veil of thick gray clouds, only appearing a few minutes at a time to shed its anemic light on a very soggy Gaia.

Kuja didn't much mind the dreary conditions. The sound of the rain plunking against the stone roof was soothing, in a way, one of nature's wordless songs. He could hear it even now, the soft constant lull and intermittent sharp _pings _of water droplets hitting stone and glass.

The sound stirred him a sense of longing; a solitary walk in a gentle shower such as this would be just what he needed to pacify the knot of anxieties writhing in his chest. They, like the rain storms, had been building over the last few days, and had grown to such a size that at times Kuja could almost taste it in his throat—a bitter flavor grown of indolence and uncertainty. The origins of his unease were unknown. What reason did he have to feel uneasy? It wasn't as if he had any pressing matters to attend to. The world thought he was dead. His agenda had been systematically wiped clean by his alleged demise. How, then, could he feel apprehension over his inactivity when he had nothing to _do?_

Cabin fever. That's what Zidane had called it when Kuja had shared his concerns over the issue. The restless feeling experienced over an extended period of sedentary living; it was new to Kuja. He'd always been a…driven person, to put it politely—always with a plan, always with a motive, always looking to the future. In the past, he'd struggled with the efficiency of said plans, and if one strategy wasn't progressing satisfactorily he of course felt frustrated, but never _restless. _At those times he'd felt more like a character from one of Lord Avon's plays, cursing himself for not moving forward when he knew time was short.

Well…those days were over now. Time was still short, but he had a second chance at the life that remained. New paths, new directions, new motives—it was all open ended. He could do whatever he wanted. What he _wanted_ was to have a purpose again (preferably one that did not include a job description as a terrorist). He'd finally learned what it meant to really live. He wanted—needed—to make the best of it.

Perhaps it was because he didn't know _how _to start over that spawned the anxiety. Kuja glanced out the window again, breathing out a heavy, slow sigh. Unfortunately, there just wasn't anything he could do about it right now. Although he could now freely move around the small house without help, he tired easily and quickly. Magic was still very much beyond his limits, and without it he was meek as a day old kitten. "Just wait"—it had become Zidane's less than inspiring mantra whenever he caught him staring out the window like this. Kuja was, if nothing else, a patient man. If waiting was required to achieve the desired effect, he would wait. And if the weather held up, the rain would likely wait with him.

Aside from that, water added to an area that was essentially a large dust bowl resulted in alarming amounts of mud, and something about slogging through ankle deep sludge took the splendor right out of a rainy day stroll. Best to take Zidane's advice and stay indoors.

His train of thought derailed abruptly at that. Where was Zidane, anyway? He'd not seen him all morning. Kuja frowned. Normally within the first few minutes of waking the blonde was bustling into his room, all sunshine and smiles despite the gloomy weather and ungodly hour (Kuja could not be defined as a morning person), breakfast tray in hand. Usually he wouldn't make it a habit to complain over a missed meal—Zidane was still force-feeding him that horrible soup (he suspected it was the only thing he knew how to make, at this point)—but it wasn't like the boy to leave him unattended for so long.

Kuja felt a flash of annoyance. Had Zidane tired of him already? Then, a flash of fear. What if something had happened to him? The two emotions battled for dominance, with worry for his companion reigning victorious after a brief moment of debate. He decided it just wasn't Zidane's nature to abandon him (a certain incident in a tree came to mind to prove the point). Knowing that he was likely overreacting, he convinced himself that a search was nevertheless in order. It was possible that Zidane had merely chosen this particular morning to sleep in, and if that were the case then Kuja felt it was his duty to seize this opportunity to seek revenge for the blonde's use of overly enthusiastic wake-up calls.

Steeling himself, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The room remained stationary—always a good sign. He took and deep breath, feeling the blood rush through his limbs. He was a little tired (and sore, of course—it was a constant nuisance), but overall he felt fairly good. A small smile twitched on his lips. Perhaps there was hope for his recovery after all.

He had only taken a few steps when the room was illuminated by a bright, brief flash of iridescent light. Kuja barely had time to brace himself before the following clap of thunder shattered the silence. He clapped his hands over his ears instinctively; it sounded as if the gods themselves had ripped apart the very fabric of the universe, then slammed the two halves back together again in a titanic clash. Ears ringing, Kuja went back to the window. The view outside resembled a scene from a post-apocalyptic world: the sky was pitch black, covered in ominous thunderhead clouds, and the rain had gone from a mild drizzle to an all out downpour.

Far worse than storm, though, was the sight of a figure struggling through it. Kuja pressed up against the glass, squinting through the sheets of rain. He couldn't see clearly, but he knew it was Zidane—who else would it be? There were also…things with him, blobby, indistinct white things that clung to his ankles and even, Kuja saw, to his tail. He was cradling one, very small in comparison, in his arms like a baby, and as the bizarre parade drew closer to the house, Kuja realized that the creatures were moogles—five of them, by his count. He'd never met the pride himself as they tended to avoid him like the plague (Zidane tried to convince him that they were just shy, but he knew better). However, his blonde companion seemed to care for them quite a bit—he'd mentioned once that he felt it was his duty to protect them, having deprived the little white faeries of their "Lady Eiko."

Kuja thought he was insane for braving such a vicious storm on account of five pint-sized rats with wings, but then again, Zidane had once ventured into the bowels of the Iifa Tree to rescue an Angel of Death, so he supposed it wasn't all that surprising.

He continued to watch their approach for several seconds before starting toward the door in search of towels and blankets.

There was another flash of lightning. He saw it out of the corner of his eye; Zidane faltered, loosing his footing on the wet earth. Thunder roared. Kuja blinked. When he looked again, Zidane was on his hands and knees on the ground, struggling to hold the smallest moogle out of the viscous mud.

A part of Kuja found the humor in the whole scenario. One didn't see a genome slogging through the mud with a pack of moogles clinging to his limbs like some sort of furry parasite just ever day, after all. But pity found a stronger position in his heart than amusement, and he decided to forget the towels and lend a hand.

He found it considerably harder to feel charitable once he was outside, though. Instantly drenched in cold rain and flecks of airborne mud, Kuja somewhat regretted his hasty decision but soldiered on despite his reservations. He fought his way to Zidane a few yards away and wordlessly plucked the moogle from the boy's tail. The creature squeaked indignantly but a quick glare silenced it, fear replacing anger in its eyes (shy—Kuja knew better). A second moogle fell prey to the same treatment, but despite their obvious dislike of him, he carefully cradled the little bodies to his chest, feeling them tremble underneath a layer of wet fur.

"Kuja!" Zidane had to shout to be heard over the wind. "What are you doing out here? Are you _trying _to kill yourself?"

"No," he yelled back, beginning to pick his way back to the house, "I'm _trying _to help you."

"You're in no condition to be helping anyone!"

They made it to the threshold without incident. Kuja promptly deposited the moogles to the floor; they hurriedly found refuge from him underneath the sagging couch. Wringing out a handful of silver hair, he said to Zidane, "I believe the proper Gaian response would be "thank you."'

"Thank you for what? For undoing everything I did to nurse you back to health over the last month?" The blonde lowered his own burden to the ground and shut the door, blocking out some of the storm's noise. "I didn't bring you back from the brink of death just so you could die of pneumonia!"

"You're welcome." Kuja smirked. He couldn't help it. It took a special kind of circumstance to irritate Zidane—apparently this was one of them. He looked so…so…quaint, so (and he hesitated here, unfamiliar with the word), so _adorable_, standing there with his hands braced against his hips and his tail thumping against the floor. Of course the whole image was somewhat ruined by the mud smeared across his face and clothes, and the water dripping steadily off his hair in a vaguely rhythmic pattern.

Zidane was not impressed by his sudden wit, nor was he amused. "I'm serious, Kuja. What if you get sick again?"

The note of panic in his voice did not escape Kuja's notice. He let his smirk dissolve into a carefully neutral expression, trying to mollify the boy. "I'm fine. I feel much better today, in fact. Actually, I'd prefer it if I were a bit drier, but aside from that I feel pretty good."

That finally seemed to sink in. As if realizing for the first time that they were both forming sizable puddles at their feet, Zidane moved to the closet where they had stored all of their linens ("borrowed" or otherwise) and handed him a towel.

"Dry off," he ordered, "and change out of your wet clothes. I'm gonna get a fire started."

Kuja had grown accustomed to the idea of Zidane directing him around (although it still amused him, when he considered their age difference) and he followed the commands without complaint. While Zidane worked at the hearth, he slipped into the adjoining bedroom and stripped out of his clothes, dropping the soggy garments to the floor with a wet thud. Vigorously he ran the towel over his body, working until his skin had taken on a light pink hue, shivering despite himself. A draft of warm air slipped through the open door, signaling that Zidane had successfully gotten the fire going; eager to be closer to the warmth, he hurriedly selected a pair of trousers and a shirt from the old wardrobe. They were hopelessly unsuited to his body—all of his clothes were. The previous owner of the house, who ever he was, had obviously been a man of much greater proportions: the shirt hung loosely across Kuja's shoulders and the pants constantly threatened to slip down his narrow hips. None of the slacks were designed for individuals with tails, either, which made wearing them especially awkward.

But it was better than walking naked, he supposed. Not that Kuja would have necessarily minded; his Terran garb had been much more revealing than this modest apparel, and much more liberating as well. It was for Zidane's benefit, really—the blonde had expressed his…disapproval of his fashion sense in the past, flushed red with embarrassment as he confessed that the first time he'd saw him, back in Burmecia, he'd thought Kuja was a woman.

Kuja was still, understandably, a bit sour over that.

Decent again, he left the room and gravitated immediately to the healthy fire blazing in the hearth. Zidane was gone, but he could hear movement from the annexed kitchen, so Kuja settled down in front of the fire to wait. Warmth spread through his body, chasing away the lingering chill in his extremities and stilling the trembling of his hands. The muted roar of the fire and the popping, hissing wood was simply captivating.

Combined with the sounds of the storm outside, it was altogether somehow peaceful. Fire, he found, had its own song; like rain, it soothed him, comforted him like a mother's lullaby, although he couldn't say for sure if the two were very similar—"mother" was a concept he'd only read about in books. He recalled a pleasant little story, from a child's picture book he'd once picked up out of curiosity. At the time he'd thought the illustrations to be juvenile and somewhat repulsive; he hadn't read the whole thing. One image had stuck with him—a woman in an old wooden chair before a docile fire, cradling a swaddled infant and smiling softly, gently, lovingly. She'd probably been singing, hushed but full of emotion; it wouldn't have mattered at all if she hadn't the voice for it, so long as she smiled like that. He could almost hear her voice.

Kuja closed his eyes and felt a sudden wetness on his cheeks. He brushed it away indifferently. Odd. He must have missed a spot with the towel. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them tightly, resting his chin on his knees. His chest felt tight, and full, as if his heart were swollen and pressing against his lungs. He knew what sadness was, but he didn't understand it. Why feel grief for a woman that he never knew, who didn't even exist? He tried to put it out of his mind—he was a master at it—but the picture remained vivid, stuck in his brain like a bur. Why should he care? It was far too late to lament such things, now.

Footsteps signaled Zidane's approach. He padded over to the fire to stand directly behind him; Kuja could feel the heat from his body against his back. He didn't speak—highly irregular for a boy who sometimes seemed to talk just to hear the sound of his own voice. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence, although he had wonder if Zidane was being uncommonly quiet because he was still upset with him.

Kuja seized the distraction willingly; he was forming his mouth around an inquiry when Zidane dropped a clean towel over his head and started drying out his long, silver tresses.

He let out an embarrassing squeak of surprising before he found his voice. "What are you doing…?"

"Drying your hair," Zidane replied simply, implying somewhat of a vocal shrug with the nonchalance of his tone. "You're dripping water everywhere." The nonchalance mutated to an audible grin. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you've got a lot of hair. Maybe even more than Dagger did, and she really _is _a girl."

Several things came to mind as a response to that. Kuja fumbled through resentment and an automatic defense mechanism to defend his appearance before he arrived at an appropriate reply. "I'm aware of that, thank you. But you don't have to. I'm perfectly capable of drying my own hair."

"I'll stop if you want me to," he said, simple again, continuing his ministrations.

Kuja opened his mouth to tell him cease and desist, but silenced himself almost immediately, a protest dying on his lips as Zidane began to massage his scalp through the thick cotton towel. Normally he disliked it when hands other than his own touched his hair, but he found this treatment to be surprisingly pleasant. Enjoyable, even. Zidane's touch was firm but tender, and he took great pains to avoid pulling even a single strand too harshly. Gradually the shock wore off and Kuja forgot his self-consciousness, allowing himself to bask in the simple pleasure.

He had even started to lean into it a bit when a drop of water splashed onto his shoulder, startling him, and he looked up. Beads of rainwater had collected at the ends of Zidane's still damp hair, and were shook loose every time he moved his head in just the right way. The blonde didn't even seem to notice, he was so absorbed in his work,

"You're dripping on me," Kuja pointed out, grinning smugly. "Or did you forget that you also have a lot of hair?"

"Huh?" Zidane blinked in confusion. He passed his hand over his bangs, dislodging the water droplets there and sending them cascading down his face. "Oops. Sorry." He registered the second half of Kuja's statement and smirked. "And I could probably use a hair cut, yeah, but at least I don't look like a woman."

"No, you just look like a ragged street urchin. And a half drowned street urchin, at that." Kuja half rose, taking up his own discarded towel and passing it over Zidane's cheek, smothering the water trail there. Their faces were only inches from each other; so close that Kuja observed many unique details he'd failed to notice before—how incredibly blue Zidane's eyes were, how his nose had a small crook to it, as if it'd had once been broken by a heavy blow, how smooth his skin was, much tanner in comparison to his own. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked, and caressed the delicate patch of flesh under one eye with the pad of his thumb.

When he realized what he'd done, how this must look, he froze, eyes darting up to Zidane's to gauge his reaction. The blonde caught his gaze and held it, and for once his expression was completely unreadable. Fearing he'd overstepped his bounds, Kuja jerked back, dropping the towel as if it had scalded him. He couldn't look at Zidane, even though he could feel the blonde's eyes on him. His heart was pounding, and he was sure he was blushing. He felt it again, that weird feeling in his chest, the nameless sensation he got when he interacted with Zidane. And this time it was accompanied by something different, something powerful, something much more frightening because Kuja knew what this feeling was for once, this stirring in his gut. He may not have been human, but he was _built _human, and he knew human emotions that stemmed from attraction…want…desire…longing. It was muted, tame—but it was there.

How he came to feel this way about _Zidane _of all people was a mystery, and altogether terrifying. What did it mean in conjuncture with that _other_ feeling? Was there something wrong with him? There had to be something wrong with him. It was a mix of signals in his brain; he was confusing affection with attraction; he could never want to be—hope to be—anything more than a friend to Zidane. It was wrong. He was wrong. _This _was wrong.

He wanted to apologize. His open and closed his mouth in several false starts. Anything he could say would only make this situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

Fortunately Zidane beat him to it. The blonde cleared his throat, and Kuja involuntarily looked up at him. The boy's cheeks were flushed pink, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot. Rubbing his neck and staring at the ceiling, he said, "I'll go make tea for us."

Kuja nodded weakly. He watched Zidane retreat to the kitchen and would have kicked himself if he thought it would help. What would happen now? Had he ruined his chances at friendship with Zidane? Had his actions shattered the fragile peace that had just begun to form around this house? He cursed himself, his body and his mind, for betraying him when he needed them most. A prisoner in his own skin, that's what he was—not even free to reign over his emotions. He cursed Garland, that fool of a man, for making him what he was, and for robbing him of the tools to shape what he was. For all his education, culture, and power, he was naïve and ignorant as a newborn babe.

He muttered his thanks when Zidane reemerged into the living room and handed him a steaming mug of herbal tea—the same tea as always, but that didn't even matter to him anymore. He choked down a mouthful of the brew just for a distraction, heedless of the heat as it burned its way down his throat.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He spluttered his next sip in surprise. He hadn't expected to be addressed so soon. He glanced sidelong at Zidane as he took a seat next to him in front of the fire, nursing his own cup.

"You have to wait for it to cool down first," he advised, blowing on the hot liquid in demonstration. "I downed a whole cup once—I was in a hurry to get out of my costume—long story—but the short of it was that I ended up with a mouthful of blisters. Not a pleasant experience."

"I…I can imagine," Kuja said at length. It seemed the blonde was willing to forget that the whole thing had ever happened—typical Zidane. If he was going to apologize for his behavior, now was the time.

"Zidane, I—" He began, at the same time Zidane said:

"Hey, Kuja, I've been thinking—"

Kuja cleared his throat. Opportunity wasted. "Yes?"

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing. Forget about it." _But I'll remember._

Zidane shrugged. "Whatever."

He waited for him to continue, but when further comment was not forthcoming, Kuja prompted, "What were you saying?"

Zidane sipped his tea. "I forget."

"Liar."

"Cross-dresser."

"Thief."

"Drama queen."

"Long-haired ruffian."

"You're one to talk!"

Kuja chuckled a bit, gazing back into the fire without mustering another retort. It may have seemed juvenile to an observer, but he was glad of these little name-calling spats. It meant everything was all right between them…whatever all right meant. How long it would last was anyone's guess. For now…he would just have to keep pretending.

**End**

_Written because Kuja is more than a pretty boy with a big vocabulary and a tragic past. I will have him know love yet, or I will go crazy trying. Let us pray._

PS: Bonus points for anyone who caught the parallels between Lord Avon's unnamed character and a certain English poet's tragic prince.

PSS: I want to give a shout out to **Elsewhere**, an author over at AdultFanficdotNet. Her stories _Cathartik_ and _If You Fall_ were a big inspiration for this story. If you like the KujaxZidane/ZidanexKuja pairing, I would head on over to her profile page. I warn you, they are on AdultFanFic for a reason, so if you aren't old enough to be browsing around over there, then don't. 'Tis illegal, and I don't want to be accused of corrupting the kiddies.


End file.
